One week from today, my son Kevin runs the Boston Marathon, that venerable race that was plagued with bombings last year. Twenty-fourteen will be a redemption, a memorial, an opportunity for the running community – past and present – to come together. Thirty-six thousand runners are competing and over a million spectators are expected to turn out along the course.
On the backside, logistics are a nightmare whether you’re a runner or a spectator. There are to be no backpacks, unless they are plastic see-through; no strollers; no big purses; no banners; nothing that would attract attention. Access to the various venues is strictly controlled, which means we’ll have to have a secure plan to find Kevin at the end of the race.
For this reason, we’re arriving on the Friday before the marathon. We want to scope the territory, figure out how we can best cheer Kevin on at various mile markers, and still get to the finish line in time to yell him across. It’s daunting.
And it probably won’t work according to plan. Kevin ran three marathons last year, and each of them had unanticipated problems. The worst case scenario for Boston is that we find a watering hole when we’re doing our reconnoitering on the weekend and plan to meet there no matter what. In this case, Kevin will cross the finish line alone, but celebrate with his family asap.
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